


The Roots of This Tree

by frak-all (or_ryn)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Order of the Phoenix AU, Time Travel, Violence, of sorts, souls are kind of a big deal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2018-05-24 14:02:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6155959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/or_ryn/pseuds/frak-all
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom Riddle is sixteen. He is also angry, a murderer, and scrambling to salvage his very-well-thought-out plan. </p>
<p>Hermione is sixteen. She's bleeding out on the Ministry floor, and events just get worse from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story about life and death and love and the choices we make. It's also a story about magic and violence and what it means to ~~have~~ be a soul. 
> 
> If it sounds like too much to tackle, that's because it is. I've decided to give myself permission to try and fail with this one, though. (Cause that's how growth happens, right?) Cross-posted at FF.net. 
> 
> Content warnings for blood and graphic violence. I'll add more warnings if they become applicable. I don't consider it a spoiler, however, to let you know that sexual violence and coercion will **not** be present in this story. 
> 
> Last but not least - thank you, atweird, for looking over the first couple of chapters for me. Your help has been invaluable. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

 

* * *

 

“You can exist without your soul, you know, as long as your brain and heart are still working. But you’ll have no sense of self anymore, no memory, no... anything. There’s no chance at all of recovery. You’ll just exist. As an empty shell.”  
  
—Remus Lupin, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban

 

* * *

**The Roots of This Tree  
** **-  
** Prologue

* * *

 

Hermione is fourteen.

She hangs back in the shadows, feet planted at the ring of the tide. Black, muddy water laps, recedes, and laps, nearly soaking her shoes through. Harry huddles next to her, head turning, frantic eyes searching for something — for someone.

Another heartbeat, and the water shifts, violently twisting into crackling, screaming sheets of ice.

Hermione stares straight at the scene ahead, paralyzed.

The wand in her hand is useless. _She_ is useless. This — the second time around, and she should know better, should _do_ better, but she doesn’t. She can’t. She has tried, and she has _failed_ — has failed over and over, always, already, again.

Above, inky hooded shapes eat the intervening space between her and _her_ in careening, ravenous gulps. The her _here_ and the her on the ground, unconscious, between Harry and Sirius.

Their bodies are pale and cold and slack, warmth siphoning from them at an unnerving rate.

They look dead.

Unmoving, she watches as the moisture dotting their skin clinks to crystalline solid. Water, she knows, freezes from the outside in.

An overmastering panic solidifies in her.

There is so much ice.

Ice and dark, hungering hands, which point and summon and pull. Sirius Black is lifted, floating limp as a ragdoll in the air. His head lolls back, exposing a bright white throat.  

The darkness crowds around him now. Swirling, demanding, devouring — _excited_.

Incandescent light rips from Sirius’s mouth and nose and eyes in a violent burst, leaving his body a wretched husk. Forgotten, it plummets to the ground and crumples on the ice. She notes shallow breathing, slow, barely-there movements of his chest cavity. Above, the light is white-blue, hot, and pulsing. 

It is energy.

It is alive.

It is, unmistakably, _him_.

And it is wholly alone in the darkness.

The soul, she sees then, is a physical thing. Not a metaphor, or a feeling, or a chemical reaction in the brain.  A _thing_.

And things can be taken from you.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left kudos, wrote comments, and subscribed to the prologue. Your words and thoughts are why I post to this site. In particular, my sincere thanks extend to atweird for helping make this bite-sized introductory chapter presentable. 
> 
> So, yeah. I've got another short one here, but we're going somewhere. 
> 
> At least, Hermione is.

Hermione is sixteen.

She wakes disoriented on the atrium floor, both hands pressing into her front. Her memory is elusive, and then it comes at her in a flash. There's a silent, sneering Dolohov. A stream of violet fire. And-

And now there’s a cut. A cut on her abdomen that’s less of a cut, she’s quickly coming to realize as she brings a shaking scarlet hand away, and more of a horrible weeping gash across the whole of her stomach.

It _hurts_.

It hurts so much, but it’s starting to hurt less. She knows this is not a good thing.

It’s hard to worry about that, though, because in the next instant, Harry’s heart shatters, and hers might break a bit too. Professor Lupin, thank _goodness_ for him, wraps around her friend like an anchor, bodily holding Harry back as blinding grief erupts from his throat, intending to propel him forward and swallow him whole.

The spells pay no mind. They whizz about in pinks and purples and reds and _greens_ , as Harry shouts — _s_ _creams_ , streams of color that play across the room in bright, bounding flashes. In the center, at the focus, there is a dias with an archway, a tattered black curtain, shimmering and sucking. The slight sway of it increases, ripples with Sirius’s capture, reflecting and collecting and catching more than just her eye.

She hadn’t heard anything before, had told Luna and the others as much, but now, from the depths of the curtain, comes a drowning, wrenching cry of such abject pain that it nearly knocks her back.

Her vision blurs.

The calling cry persists, prolonged — ageless. She feels the hurt resonate and rebound, ricochet around her cavernous, ringing insides, knows it is somehow picking up speed instead of giving into inertia. It is in her and she can _feel_ herself filling with it now, feel it boiling, tugging, taught and intense.

She chokes, and her slick, bloody hand grabs frantically at the skin of her throat. The bright bouncing pinks and purples and reds and greens are pinpricks of light, then they are gone entirely.  She tips forward, vision black-

She tips forward and continues to tip, torn.

* * *

There’s a veil, see. A doorway.

And unlike Sirius, she isn’t pushed through.

She's pulled. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, hello. If you reach the end of this chapter, please drop a line. Or at least a letter. 
> 
> Now on to the chapter. (Things happen! The verb of the story begins.)
> 
> Let's go.

Her ears are ringing. This is her first bit of consciousness in what must be forever.

Hermione blinks, and all she sees is white, the light blinding. There is only so much her senses can take, so she closes her eyes for the moment as her hearing adjusts.

Her head slumps to the side, and woven strands of thick, almost-smooth wool brush against her cheek. Her hand twitches. She extends her fingers minutely, testing, flexing. Reaching out, eyes still firmly closed, she searches for her wand across the top of what must be a very fine rug.

"Who are you?"

The clanging in her eardrums is lessening, but that's also before the voice. The voice itself is distant, and though it feels like her head's underwater, she can hear the words well enough, can tell they're shouted.

"Ungh," she croaks. It's supposed to be a question.

_Where am I?_

_What happened?_

_Did everyone make it out?_

She isn't sure which one she's trying to say, but any would do.

She blinks in rapid-fire succession, her vision white-black-white-black-white, until the light and dark converge into a manageable mix. As they do, a face starts flashing into focus next to her on what she had correctly deduced was a rug. A persian rug. Hermione blinks again, the world coming together now, and finds herself staring into the glassy, unseeing eyes of a middle-aged man.

She screams.

"Be  _quiet_!" the voice yells, cutting her off. She has enough awareness now to tell the voice is coming from behind her.

She jerks her head around, her breathing a heavy, hitched staccato. At the rapid turn, vertigo slams into her. Hits her hard. Makes her dizzy.

The physical dizziness, though, is no match for the swirling confusion she feels as she puts a face to the voice yelling at her. Because it's the man on the rug, only younger. And—not a corpse.

No, his eyes are definitely, distinctly alive. Wild, even.

She's breathing faster now. It's unsteady, uneven.  _Panic_. This is panic.

"Who are you?" he asks again, louder, his pale skin flushed a mottled pink. "What are you doing here?"

Her eyes lock on his face, and she sees that pale, mottled skin, and a head of messy black hair, and a rage — a  _panic_  so dissimilar to her own, as her right arm swings across the rug in a quick, searching arc. Her hand hits the top of her thigh without coming across anything.

Her jeans are soaked and warm.

She's still bleeding.

"Hel -  _help_ ," she calls.

The young man starts, looking over his shoulder, then back to her. He's holding a wand tightly in his left hand. Hermione sees the handle of another wand sticking out of his trouser pocket. It must be hers.

Instantly, her arms heave against the floor, and she attempts to sit up.

It's not a good idea.

* * *

When Hermione jerks awake again, she is in a bed. On top of a bed. Dense, scratchy wool irritates her arms, and it feels like there's a weight on her head. Her hands fly to her stomach, under her torn, blood-stained shirt, and find a rope of tender purple-pink scar tissue. She exhales.

"How are you feeling?"

The voice is deep, precise, and polite. Somehow, she manages to keep from reacting suddenly.

She sits up slowly instead, thudding heart heavy in her ears, limbs sluggish, and head foggy. Adrift. Her back presses into the wall behind her as her bottom half sinks further into the bed — though, it's really more like a cot; there's no headboard or footboard, and the mattress is so pitifully thin that it might actually be made of straw.

The room she's in, if one could call it that, is warm, cramped, and dark with a low, sloped ceiling. Cracks of yellow morning light pierce through a haphazardly shuttered window, providing partial illumination to the room, which appears to be the whole building — a shack.

It's filthy.  _Putrid_ , really. There are potion ingredients sprawled and rotting by a dusty, upended cauldron and empty fireplace, rabbit bones and rat carcasses littering the floor, and snakes — actual  _snakes_  — nailed to the door with thick iron spikes practically cleaving their necks. Some are so large they nearly touch the floor. She's not sure, because her vision is slightly blurred around the edges, but she thinks one is still moving.

She grimaces and looks away.

In the tiny, dirty space, it's impossible to miss the teenager keeping vigil at her bedside on a rickety wooden chair. For one, he's the antithesis to this place — clean and meticulously put together. For another, he is so close she can almost reach out and touch him. So close he can certainly reach out and touch her.

She can't avoid noticing him, not in a space so small. She scans his body, tries to place him, her eyes roaming the structured plains of his face, the carefully combed waves of dark, dark brown hair, the unblemished, unlined pale skin, the wide mouth, the full lips, quickly skipping over and around the details, piecing disparate parts together as best and fast as she can.

He is dreamlike, beautiful, and utterly unfamiliar.

He brought her here.

Hermione glances down, frowning, as a lurching clutch of fear snaps in her. She sees a wand in his lap, just beyond her grasp, resting perpendicular to his knees. It isn't hers, but it looks almost identical to Harry's. Slightly less worn, maybe, but it could be its twin.

"You've been asleep for awhile. Are you feeling alright?" the teenager asks. His voice is velvet and swathes her in concern.

"I'm not sure," Hermione answers cautiously, moving her eyes from his lap and scooting farther back against the wall. "Better, I think."

Her head hurts, and her mouth feels like it's full of cotton. She wonders if it's from the dehydration, blood loss, or something else entirely. She swallows. The little saliva that's in her mouth is thick, stringy.

"That's good. I was worried. I wasn't sure how you'd be feeling, to tell you the truth."

She doesn't look back at him, focusing instead on her dry, blood-stained shirt. He sounds genuine, though. Kind.

"Thank you for healing me," she says slowly. Her tongue darts over her lips, and her eyes flick to the door and back.

The connections — the connections aren't coming, and she knows this isn't right. She feels tired, yes, but it's beyond than that. She's numb and sluggish, and her thoughts tingle, like her brain is a limb that has fallen asleep, just a jumble of pins and needles.

"You did heal me, right?" she asks, unsure. Anxious. Stumbling.

She's tripping around in her head on feet too weak to stand.

"Yes," he says, and out of her periphery, she sees him nod and give her a close-lipped, appraising smile, inclining his head calmly, magnanimously. The gesture feels so ludicrously out of place.

"Thank you. Thank you for your help," she says, and it's genuine. Kind. The gratitude spills from her without any conscious thought at all, and it's like she's putting too much pressure on a nerve.

"Someone hit you with a very dark curse," he all but whispers, voice low and, again, very concerned. "You nearly died. Do you know what happened to you — how you got here?"

She feels skittish. Confused and unwell in a way that seems deeply wrong, even for her injury. But something about his words and his tone bother her, so she forces herself to look at him. Not around him. Not over his features. She looks a _t_  him, and their gazes clash, crack and puncture like an electric shock.

His eyes are brown-black, intense, and focused entirely on her. At once, Hermione sees in them a light — an absence — a silvery blue deepness and a black, craggy darkness. The veil flashes, someone screams — prolonged,  _undying_ , and then a man is lying murdered and empty next to her.

She recoils.

How could she  _forget_?

Did he make her forget?

She closes her eyes, exhaling raggedly, collecting herself. She will  _not_  panic. Panic doesn't help anything.

This is simply a problem that needs solving, and when she solves it, when she puts the pieces together, she'll understand.

It's morning, and she's not at the Ministry, and she's not at Hogwarts, and she's not at Grimmauld Place. She nearly died — thanks to, at least in part, a curse from Dolohov. Then a man who looked like an older version of the young man sitting before her  _did_ die. Somewhere in between, a madly cackling Bellatrix Lestrange shot Sirius through the veil, and she felt a wrenching, blinding scream.

This is what she knows.

Is it?

Hermione opens her eyes, and he is still staring at her, trying, she thinks, to catch the path of her gaze again. He has a consuming, probing stare. The kind that takes and takes and doesn't miss much.

She looks away. The dark denim of her jeans is dirty, dry, and stiff. Gradually, she bends her knees, pulling her legs up further on the cot, into herself, like the coils of a spring.

"I—I don't know. Where is here?" she asks, her voice sounding even weaker than she feels. "Where am I?"

The teen tilts his head and fiddles with a large black and gold ring on his left index finger, watching her like she is a curious thing.

"Little Hangleton," he answers after a second, like he's mulling something over.

"Oh."

Her heart stutters. Plummets. Over one hundred fifty kilometers from the Ministry, and the only person she's ever known to have been here is Harry — and that hadn't exactly been by choice, either. Outwardly, she tries to give as little away as possible, to not let the unsteady build of anxiety show on her face. Fear, panic — they don't help  _anything._

The young man leans in slightly, his crisp white button-down wrinkling and the empty gaping pockets of his trousers expanding, but otherwise he makes no apparent move to ask her anything.

She fights back a frown as another piece clicks. "I'm sorry, what was your name? I'm not sure we've met."

"No," he says, "we haven't. I wish it was under better circumstances, but, well," he pauses, and it's charming; it  _means_  something. "I'm Tom."

She doesn't know what to do with charming, though; it's another thing that doesn't fit. She knows that, somehow.

Her brows knit, and she presses. "Tom...?"

"Just Tom," he answers, tone clipped. He looks rather cross all of a sudden, and it's a frightening, refractory expression.

"Tom," Hermione says, planting the soles of her shoes flat on the mattress, testing the name. It feels wrong. Everything about what's happening feels wrong. She comes to a decision.

"Tom," she repeats, firmer, "have you seen my wand? I seem to have misplaced it."

She watches him, and he watches her.

"I'm not sure what you—"

"Okay, then."

She lunges, diving sideways for the wand on his lap.

She lands roughly, slamming into him. Her right hand brushes gleaming, pristinely polished wood, and her magic flares spectacularly at the slight touch, clearing her head with a shout. Her fingers curl around the cylindrical tip of the wand, and it's perfect, and it's hers — and suddenly she's grasping air, then she's grasping nothing at all, arm still outstretched, her body partway falling off the cot. She tenses, her hand curled in a hard fist.

She swings it upward and catches him on the jaw.

He staggers in his seat, momentarily stunned. Hermione is halfway on top of him now and not wasting any time. She clambers for his wrist, pushing against the mattress behind her and practically crawling up his body, causing the small, straining wooden chair they're both on to rock back.

She doesn't pause to look at him — doesn't pause to think. She wraps her hand around the wand, her fingers overlocking and interlacing with Tom's long, thin ones; the ring on his finger burns hot, and her magic screams, floodwaters building and ready to burst. There's no way she's strong enough to wrench the wand from his firm grip, not now, so she squeezes her fingers tighter, pulls at her magic, and yells.

" _Expelliarmus!"_


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boom.

There's an explosion.

* * *

When she hits the wall, neck whipping and head smacking against the exposed, roughly cut wood of the shack, she doesn't feel it. She doesn't feel it as her body slumps to the mattress and her vision tunnels and her ears ring a cascading, rippling note. But she does feel a pull.

Her magic thrums in a vacuum.

Her palms are empty.

Across the small room, Tom's limp form is collapsed near the fireplace, the back of his head flush with the upended pewter cauldron.

Hermione picks herself up. Painstakingly, she scoots forward, then swings her feet off the cot. She stands, and her legs buckle under her weight.

She lands on all fours, her knees and palms slapping the achingly solid floor. The lack of control is unnerving, worrying, but she resolves not to think on it.

Instead, from her new vantagepoint, she surveys the room. She searches it still as she struggles to her feet, her pulse rabbit-quick and practically audible.

All she sees is dirt. Dirt and filth and the broken, digested bones of rodents and mice and other small creatures. And Tom. She sees his form, too. Though it looks like it's not completely broken, she thinks.

She hesitates.

Uncertain, she lifts a trembling hand and whispers, low and clear, _"Accio Wand!"_

She scans the room and waits, wanting and hoping, willing her wand to appear from the wreckage of the room and fly into her expectant hand. The magic that surrounds her, is in her, is her — it could do this for her, this feat of technically above average skill, if she does her part right.

But nothing happens. Not a movement, not a flicker.

Her foolish heart sinks.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Tom stir.

She bolts, immediately stumbling for the door. Skirting her bone-deep revulsion, she knocks aside the corpse of a brown diamond adder obscuring the doorknob, its slick scales sliding against her skin, and wrenches at the metal handle.

It's locked.

She tries the handle again, shaking the door so hard that the snakes swing and rattle like perverse pendulums. The largest, heaviest one severs on its iron nail, falling, finally decapitated, to the floor.

More snakes are knocked aside and the smell of rotting, desiccated meat nearly makes her retch, but it's no use. The door is locked, yet there isn't a _visible_ lock. It has to be magic.

Immediately, her eyes fix on one of the shuttered windows. The one directly above the bed. She scrambles back on unsteady feet, feeling endlessly stupid as she retraces her steps; she's relieved when she finds the thick glass panes are latched from the inside— not with magic but with a simple metal catch. Her fingers trip over the small latch, hands shaking with worried tremors, but she gets it open. The rusty hinge screeches in protest.

After that, though, the wooden shutters open with absurd ease. Fresh, clean summer air greets her.

The sun is truly risen now, and morning light glows, reflecting off dew-laden grass and a mist-covered treeline, bouncing back at her, bright and shimmering. The scene is beautiful, almost ridiculously so, but she doesn't have the time or energy to take it fully in. She has to leave, and fast. Before he gets up.

She glances down, thankful not to find a hedge or overgrown bit of shrubbery below her. Still, it will be a slight drop. There's no other way.

Awkwardly, she leverages her left leg through the window, thigh propped on the windowsill and hands grasping for purchase on the outside of the house. She pulls her other leg up with some effort. Her muscles strain, all conscious thoughts and direction, and they aren't happy with her. They're screaming with just how much they aren't happy with her.

"No! _Stop!_ " she hears Tom shout, and the wooden shutters start to rattle.

 _Not a chance_ , she thinks.

Adrenalin kicked, Hermione slides out the window and falls forward to the ground. Not waiting for the red light of a stunner, she scrambles to her feet and starts running.

Directionless but intent, she keeps going.

At least, she does until she's tackled.

* * *

A solid body slams into her. Surprise aside, her strained muscles have no real resistance left to give. She goes down hard — and with her, him.

The dark, compact earth is unforgiving, smacking into her from her knees to her breasts to her chin, and then not an instant later, the weight of Tom's body drops on her fully, pushing her further down.

Copper flames in her mouth, her roughly bitten tongue a casualty of the fall. Tears bloom in her eyes, nearly breaking her.

_What is going on?_

There's incredulity, uncertainty, _pain_ ; all of it coalescing as welling water.

She blinks the tears back.

In that second, firm hands roll her over and pin her down.

"Get off of me!" she sputters.

Tom ignores her.

"Tell me who you are," he growls, grasping her bare wrists tightly and thrashing them to the ground at her sides. His mouth is twisted, hair bloody, and his dark, dark eyes burn black. She has never seen a look so intense, so demanding, like he can see right through her.

She doesn't want to tell this enraged, clearly unhinged stranger anything, doesn't feel she ought to. He memory charmed her. He _killed_ someone.

He killed someone.

"Hermione," she says through pink, gritted teeth. A cornered thing, she wants to hiss and spit and claw.

 _He_ nearly does.

 _"What?"_ he responds. The question is savage.

She swallows, but it doesn't keep a diluted mix of blood and saliva from trickling out of her mouth and down her chin. A harried part of her wonders, worries. How much has she lost after what happened at the Ministry? After what happened at that house?

"My name is Hermione," she says, over-enunciating like she's talking to Viktor. "Her-my-oh-knee."

He narrows his eyes at her ill-timed sass. He doesn't call her on it, though. Instead, he presses, angry and scowling, his own blood pooling at his hairline and trickling down his forehead in a jagged shape. "Hermione _what_?"

"Granger," she bites back immediately, defiant. She is bruised, bloody, tired, and so very, very confused. But she is _not_ ashamed of her last name.

His dark brows knit. "I've never heard of you," he says.

"Yes, well, I've never heard of you, either."

The grip on her hands tightens. He leans over her, sneering, and opens his mouth. But before he can say anything, a plump red droplet falls from the crown of his still-bleeding head and hits the creased skin between her eyebrows. Her entire body tenses, stunned by the bloody splat.

Another hits, then.

And another.

Tom leans back, but more drops fall, and red runs in rivulets across the bridge of her nose and down the crevice of her left nostril like a gently trickling stream. As the small amount of blood passes her nose and stops just at the upturned curve of her lip, Hermione snaps.

 _No_.

She wrenches her head side to side with enough force that she thinks she could break her own neck. With a bucking jerk, her whole body kicks.

"Get _off_!" she shouts, twisting, attempting to roll, but efforts to extract her arms are weak against his firm grip, and he is sitting on her knees.

"No," he says, his eyes jumping from her curling, scrambling fingers to her bloody face. "Calm _down_."

She makes a loud, guttural noise and digs the left side of her face into the dirt, doing her best to smear her skin clean with the small rocks and grit of the ground. She thinks she's gotten it all but digs her cheek down one more time just to be sure.

"Are you quite done?"

She glares — sees his disgust, his disdain. She also sees his swelling jaw; the fine line of it blooms a satisfying, newly plum-red. It makes her ache to hit him again, but the ache doesn't match the one she has to get away.

She contemplates screaming, then. Loud, shrill, and piercing.

But she has no idea where she is, other than Little Hangleton, which may or may not be true. If it is true, she's on the outskirts, back in the woods. Not in the city, certainly. Not near any people.

So she stills. Calms _down_.

"What do you want?" she asks after several deep, regulatory breaths. "What will it take to make you let me go?"

Clearly suspicious, he presses hard on her wrists once, twice, a warning, before slacking his grip and leaning back to sit more firmly on her legs. He eyes her critically, and again she sees the quickly turning cogs of calculation in him.

After several pooled seconds, he speaks. "How did you know the riddles?" he asks, and just like her own turn to calm, his is night and day. Collected, compartmentalized coolness contrasting so extremely with the fierce burn of moments ago.

Her wrists appreciate the reprieve, but she has no idea what he's talking about.

"The what?"

"The _who_ ," he says with impatience. "The Riddles. You were in their house."

"Riddles?" Hermione chokes, eyes widening as she takes in the swarming, swirling logic before her. Her voice drops. " _Tom_ Riddle?"

Tom Riddle. Little Hangleton. The someone dead on the floor; the bones used to bring him back. They are pieces, and they clink together perfectly. Impossibly.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

_I am Lord Voldemort._

He is Lord Voldemort.

She can't believe it. _She can't believe it._

What else is there to believe?

The fear squeezing her insides grows claws that hook in deep. Tom's - _Voldemort's_ weight on her legs pales in comparison.

But _how?_

Tom has leant in eagerly, greedily at her blurted acknowledgment of him, at the twisted, horrified expression that she undoubtedly wears.

He opens his mouth, and —

There's a loud pop.

It goes off somewhere behind her, back by the hovel of a house she ran from. It sounds like a car backfiring, though she knows that's the last thing it could be.

Hermione doesn't need to crane her neck around Tom to know there's nothing but a winding, overgrown path leading to the shack. She won't be able to see it if she looks, which means _they_ can't see her.

Tom swears, jumping to the appropriate conclusions before her, but he's not fast enough. His left hand leaves her wrist, but it doesn't make it to her mouth before she turns her head and screams a piercing, pleading, prolonged note. Seconds later, his hand cuts off her cry, but she smiles around it, the blood on her teeth rubbing off on the lightly calloused skin of his palms. She's won this round.

They hear her. They have to.

"I'm going to find you," Tom says fiercely. "And you're going to tell me everything."

A threat. A promise. From Voldemort.

She laughs. How absolutely barking this dream is. How absurd.

She doesn't respond, but it appears he doesn't expect her to. He gets off of her, rising nimbly to his feet and bounding off into the dark woods, away from the hedgerowed path, and away from the apparating stranger, with long, pumping strides.

She looks up, laughs again. The cloudless blue sky is entrancing above her — so pretty, so bright, and she's still laughing sporadically, disturbingly, between gasps of pain, but she pushes herself up. She spits, wipes her mouth with the back of her sleeve, and stands, limping back toward the ruined cottage, looking for her savior around the bend.

* * *

No one is there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, atweird, for looking over this chapter for me. As always, any remaining errors are my own.
> 
> And thank you to everyone who felt this story merited an extra second of their time. Every time I see someone favoriting, signing up for alerts, or writing a review, it makes my day. (But especially thank you for the reviews. Those are great.)


	5. Chapter 5

He circles back to her with slow, prowling steps.

She isn't all that surprised, really. Minutes ago, Tom Riddle tackled her to the ground like a seasoned rugby player. Finding an Auror around the corner would have been nice, but with all of the other pieces in this dreamscape, expectations beg a rewrite.

Because the reality is that the only person here and looking for her is Tom Riddle.

Tall, murderous, unmistakably solid Tom.

He crowds in closer, blocking her exit. His hands hang loosely by his sides as he walks toward her, steady and smug. Likely, she tells herself, he ran out of the house without his wand. Surely he would have drawn it by now otherwise.

Perhaps he doesn't need it, though? This  _is_  the once-and-future Voldemort, after all. Maybe he surpasses the magical restrictions mere mortal wizards face.

With hate and intent and a pointed finger, he might just be able to utter a single word and strike her down.

Down and down and down to the ground, like a rugby tackle.

A hiccuping laugh escapes her lips.

She hears the unhinged cadence of the laugh, her laugh, after it happens, like it's reverberating static or the echo on a phone line. Like she's torn in two, her body on one plane of existence and her mind on another.

_(this is real, this isn't real)_

It doesn't matter. It's all pointless speculation, because clearly she's experiencing a hallucination brought on by blood loss. Or likely it's a poor reaction to the painkilling potions Madame Pomfrey undoubtedly has her on. There's always a chance Fred and George have something to do with this, too, for leaving them out of the Ministry flight and fight. One of those options. One of the rational plots.

Still, the pain feels real enough. The pounding in her head, the newly-rendered-and-repaired tear in her gut, the abject ache of her muscles.  _She's_  experiencing that well enough.  _She's_  the bruised body.

And dream or not, real or not, the motivation to avoid pain is universal. Crystalline. And something she's living out quite keenly at the moment, regardless of whatever form of reality this is.

_(this is real, this isn't real)_

Tom speaks, and her attention is snapped back to him. To this tall, murderous, unmistakably talking him.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asks, raising his hands slightly, fingers spread out, like he's casting a net in case she tries to run past him. "There's no way out, Hermione."

She stutter steps back.

Tom crinkles his eyes, bares his teeth, gives her a near-perfect imitation of a smile. At least, she thinks he's smiling — or trying to, anyway. He's doing it — the almost-smile, the calm, confident taunting — because he can. Because she is cornered, a rat in a trap, and he knows it.

Turning, she looks for an exit that doesn't exist. She can't help it. She at least has to  _try_.

The rundown cottage is close behind her, locked, exactly as they left it. The cottage door is shut tight, the window open and unshuttered. The man or woman who came briefly, minutes ago, left without consequence. Or perhaps never existed at all.

And... well, maybe that's her in. The dreamland giving her a backdoor.

As she flies through the possibilities, Tom-Riddle-Voldemort slows to a swaggering stop. He's still several yards away from her yet completely and utterly at ease. After all, what's the point in pouncing? He can take his time this go-round. Can do whatever he wants, whenever he wants.

There's no way out.

"I'm not going to let you ruin this for me," he tells her, a plainly stated fact, as he runs a hand through his blood-and-sweat-soaked hair, pushing the damp, heavy dark locks from his forehead.

She doesn't know what "this" is, but she takes a wild guess that it has something to do with his recent patricide. How odd that she all but saw it happen and yet everything about it feels distant, discordant, disorienting.

Magic, memory charms, murder. It's all so much and all so wrong. Everything about  _him_  feels that way, too.

He's just so  _young_  and  _handsome_  and wholly at odds with her every idea of what Tom-Riddle-Voldemort is and should be that she feels like this must be another person, another life.

_(this is real, this isn't real)_

He pulls his hand away from his forehead and squints at it before glancing back at her. He looks confident, intrigued, enraged. A mix of emotions she isn't capable of diagnosing.

She's distracted. Spiraling.

"Ruin what?" she asks, continuing to step backwards. As stall tactics go, it's among her most pathetic.

He wipes his hand on his trousers and glares at her. "Don't do that. Don't play games with me. You know who I am. You know  _exactly_  what I mean," he says, then tilts his head and frowns, "though I'm not sure how."

Then he hisses. Actually  _hisses_ , with intent.

She's mid-step back and stumbles, nearly tripping. She has no idea what he's getting at, clearly, but she knows he's expecting a response, and he isn't getting one.

The parseltongue goes on, sibilant strings of nonsensical syllables. When there is no sign of comprehension from Hermione, Tom-Riddle-Voldemort's mouth contorts, his inflection gaining unmistakable heat. With the vitriol spilling from him, he could likely summon snakes, twisting and turning like hungry roots at her feet to hold her down.

She takes another cautious step back. And another.

As she does, she imagines he must be cursing at her if he isn't literally cursing her, calling her all kinds of filthy, snake-based epithets, until her back brushes against the mossy, vine-covered wall, hitting it like the trapped rat she is.

Her hands run along the ruined cottage, the pads of her fingers touching, scraping, digging into the wall, and she tries to pull strength from its solid presence, its stability.

( _this is real, this isn't real_ )

 _It'll be okay,_ she thinks.  _I'll be okay._

Because there's a hole in that wall, and like a rat, she intends to crawl through it.

* * *

Fear is a powerful motivator. Adrenalin is an incredible drug. And magic? Well, magic can rend the world.

Before today, Hermione could confidently say she'd never attempted anything close to a pull-up. Or anything requiring upper body strength at all, to tell the truth. Hauling herself up the side of the shack and pushing herself through the open window completely ruins that claim.

Going by her current state, it should have been impossible. Funny what magic does to that word. Impossible.

Hermione slides across the wooden windowsill, wincing as the newly-healed gash on her stomach scrapes across it, and lands face-first on the mattress in an undignified heap. Her feet still hang, helter-skelter and twitching, just outside.

She moves to get up. Her arms push against the thin, lumpy mattress, and fail her entirely. She collapses.

She  _refuses_.

There's no time to wait to get stronger or for help to come, not if she wants to get free, to go home, to wake up. So no, her body isn't allowed to give out yet. She won't let it.

There's more to do, and she has to be quick.

Quick, like her right foot jerking back.

"Nice try," Tom spits.

She's dragged.  _Yanked_. There's a tug at her right foot, a firm hand wrapped around her ratty trainers, one more grasping her jeans. He drags her back an inch and then another and another before she finds her balance by digging her fingers into the mattress and curling her leg, and even then she's still losing ground.

"No!" she shouts, her left leg flailing ineffectively, kicking against his chest. "Let me  _go_ , you-you  _murderer!_ "

"That's not going to happen," he says, a patient, solid wall. "Not until you tell me who you are and what you know."

"I don't know anything! Trust me, I don't!"

"Fine," he says, and tugs. "Be that way."

Riddle's hand yanks, and she pulls, and his hand  _yanks_ , and she  _pulls_ , and she wants to yell, wants to  _scream_ , and her trainer comes suddenly, completely off of her foot.

They come apart, equal and opposite directions, him staggering back onto the ground, her falling forward into that dumb, tattered mattress. She turns her head, cheek pressed against the woolen blanket, then continues the twist until she's flipped around, facing the window. She's not going to have her back to him if she can help it. Whatever happens next, she'll meet it and him head on.

Riddle's recovery time is fast, but that's no surprise. He rights himself, drops her old shoe with a visible twinge of disgust and moves forward, sneering, hand outstretched.

She kicks.

Her foot connects squarely with his face.

The pad of her foot hits his forehead; the heel of her foot hits the bridge of his nose.

Her legs retract, again like springs, and she rolls up, jumps forward, and, just barely, shuts and latches the window before his fist slams into the glass.

The sound reverberates, and she drops back to the mattress in an instant, staring up at him wide-eyed, breathing hard, breathing heavy, like she'll never stop.

She's going in circles. She's retracing her steps.

She's losing her goddamn mind.

* * *

"Do you really think this is going to keep me out?" His fist bangs against the thick windowpane again, the edges of his once pristinely white cuffs sweaty and stained. "Do you really think  _glass_  is going to keep me out, like I'm some filthy  _muggle_?"

She closes her eyes. Tries her best to ignore him. To pray that it will, in fact, do just that. And if it won't, well, there's nothing she can do about it by gawking at him. She slinks to the floor, all but boneless, before catching her breath.

After an unsteady moment, she searches for her wand on her hands and knees.

Plates and cups and rags are flung in the air, out of the way, but it seems like whenever she tosses one thing aside, two more items take its place.

Desperate, her hands brush more dirt, debris, and decay away as she works a path from the bed to the fireplace.

Hell, even  _his_  wand would do at this point.

The banging intensifies, and she drowns it out with her own worries.

She's not finding her wand or his wand or any wand at all, and she's not sure she's going to after all this. She'll be trapped in here until he finds a way in and kills her, or until he burns this place to the ground and kills her. Either and every way, she's dead.

She really, really doesn't want to die.

With trembling fingers, she continues looking. The cottage smells something awful and the summer heat is picking up with every lost minute of the day. She's sweating but looks past it as she rolls the pewter cauldron over, throws a cracked clay pot of cakey, silvery powder behind her, shoves aside a partially digested rat carcass, tosses away a tattered embroidered silk handkerchief with more holes than fabric. She's moving jerkily, feeling utterly unhinged, so it takes a second for her brain to catch up with her hands. It does, though, since she can't exactly turn her brain off, has never been able to.

It catches up, and her forehead falls to the dirt floor, and she exhales harshly before moving up and sitting back on her heels. She does it all carefully, but her vision still tunnels, catching up with her as well, and she's suddenly the definition of the word woozy. Woozy and stupid.

She turns slowly and grabs at the shards of the now completely broken pot, breaking chunks of the cakey, should-be shimmering substance away from the clay and off in her hand, crumbling a pinch of it between her fingertips.

Floo powder. Perfect. This-this is an option.

A fire's next, is all she needs, and hopefully that shouldn't be too hard to start. Hopefully she's not wasting her time on an empty fireplace unconnected, untethered, uncertain, un-

She fades out, slapped with black.

_(this is real, this isn't real)_

She fades in, picking her head up from the floor. Suddenly, it feels a whole lot warmer.

She knows she shouldn't, but before she turns back to the fireplace, she looks up at the window, just to see if he's still there. And he is. Of course he is. Bloody, near-broken nose, black-brown eyes, and a clenched fist.

He looks at the slab of not-quite-powder still clutched and crumbling in her hand, leans his forehead on the window and twists it slightly, his skin bright white and pink where it's pressed into the glass.

"You're making this very difficult," he says, and there's heat, but it's a steady flame, not the wild rage from before; it's almost appraising, if anything. "And you're fighting very hard."

She wants to shut her eyes but doesn't, for so many reasons. Instead, she nods once, firmly.

"Why?" he asks, hardly sounding like a person.

"I just want to go home. Let me go home, and you'll never see me again, I promise. I —"

He cuts her off. "I can't do that, unfortunately."

"You  _could_."

"I can't," he repeats firmly, then lifts his forehead off of the glass. His voice drops several octaves and he looks her straight in the eye, straight into her. "Now come over here and open this window, Hermione Granger. Let's not put off the inevitable."

Her brows knit, and she shakes her head, more at herself than at him. Like she'd ever do that.

She tells him as much, and quick as a whip his fist hits the glass. It's happened so many times, that action, that she hardly flinches. The dirty thing must be spelled against shattering or else there'd be shards everywhere.

Like the clay shards of Floo powder on the floor. She looks back at him, at his absolute hair-trigger temper, and another piece to this impossible puzzle clicks.

For the moment, she breathes a little easier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a special thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who commented or left kudos. getting emails in my inbox that aren't from clients, facebook, or retail companies makes my heart happy, so please don't be a stranger. i'm on tumblr as frak-all as well, so feel welcome to say hi there!
> 
> this chapter is unedited, so apologies if there are any errors or bits that need nixing. also, still figuring out ao3 formatting, because apparently it takes me forever to learn new things. thanks for your patience!


	6. Chapter 6

Keep steady. Breathe.

Balance.  _Breathe_.

Inhale first. Exhale next. Both are rough, deliberate and intent.

Intent is important, remember that; the focus essential.

In and out. In and out.

In. And out. In _._ And out.

_Incendio._

_Incendio._

_"Incendio!"_

Her voice is raspy and hoarse with the force of her whispered cry. Her cheeks heat, and sweat beads along the nape of her neck. Her skull splits open, and her brain dribbles out of her ears like jelly.

Or it might as well be. She is draining, bordering on empty, and the shell is cracking.

Her shoulders slump and her spine bends, as if cradling the scarred flesh across her gut, her rigid posture too difficult to maintain.

It shouldn't be this hard to start a fire. To cast a spell.

Her eyes flutter closed.

It shouldn't be this hard to stay conscious, either, but this is where she is. What should be a given is now a thought-propelled ordeal.

Breathing easier is entirely metaphorical, of course. That much is obvious. Riddle seems trapped outside, unable to come in, unwilling to leave, hesitant to use magic. That helps: the seeming. Some of it is probably even true. In any case, it lessens the urgency she feels, the creeping certainty of imminent death.

But it isn't a cure-all. It's the ticking of a clock.

Hermione opens her eyes and takes another breath.

" _Incendio!"_  she says again, speaking precisely, like she's reading a pronunciation guide, moving her empty, heavy hand as Flitwick taught her, textbook picture-perfect.

She fails.

Again.

She fails.

Again.

Again. Again.

Each time is an echo of the previous attempt. A car engine turning, the battery run out. Click-

click-

click.

Soon enough, the lights will flicker off and not come back on.

"Trying to cast a spell, are you?" Riddle's voice is muffled but distinct enough in this moment of forced lucidity.

Brushing damp, clinging strands of hair from her face, Hermione turns to the window and squints. He's a partial silhouette, backlit by the ever-stronger summer sun. His clear-cut form moves, blurs.

"Maybe I can help, Hermione," he says kindly, his hands beckoning against the glass. "If you come over here and try the spell one more time where I can see."

He's been talking to her a lot lately. Muffled noises flung out like a cast net, grasping for purchase. Whenever he opens his mouth, his tact shifts, as mercurial as a boggart's form.

He's probing for a reaction. Changing based on what he thinks he reads on her.

It's all a tactic. A front. Who knows what he really looks like, sounds like?

"What about if you stand?" he tries again, reasonable. "I might be able to see your form better that way, work with you from there."

And there it is.

He wants to see her to fall again. That's what happened the last time she stood.

She doesn't respond. Looking had been a mistake.

 

* * *

 

What is she without a wand?

Is she even a witch?

 

* * *

 

Hands and knees. Hands and bloody knees.

She is a child, crawling to the corner of the room. This is what she's reduced to: crawling underneath Voldemort's watchful eye.

His stare weighs on the line of her back. Alone, on her hands and knees, she sees herself as someone who is seen by him.

Despite the stare, she reaches her destination. And it's that — destination, determination, deliberation — that brings her back to the task at hand.

The cabinet in front of her is dark, roughly hewn oak. Steadily, she sits back, planting herself on her haunches. The wood is smooth to the touch from what must be decades of wear. Her hand pulls out the lowest drawer and rummages through it.

There are clothes inside. Long, dingy-white undergarments, brown cotton trousers, an old black robe, mothballs.

Not what she needs.

She isn't expecting an anachronism here. She's more than willing to work within the bounds of this setting. This cottage stagnated somewhere in the seventeen-hundreds, its own little pocket outside of time. There won't be matches.

Flint, though. Flint and steel. Those are hovering maybes. Things worth reaching for, working for.

So she looks, and she finds. Potion ingredients, bottles covered by a thick layer of dust but contents surprisingly preserved. Chocolate, dittany, murtlap tentacles—and more. Surprising, yes. Things apart from the rest. But not what she needs.

The next drawer holds more promising items: blunt metal instruments, a fork, a skewer, three knives, and a dagger encased in sloppily-stitched leather. One of the knives looks to be steel. She takes it—and the dagger, too, sliding the sheathed weapon into her back pocket.

What's after is trash in the purest sense of the word; a hoarder's illogical trove brought into the light, bared out and molding.

Combing through this hovel is a repetitive, futile forever.

Rusting pots. A waterlogged journal. Bloody feathers from too many species of bird to name, a broken leather strap, crow's feet. A dried twig. Tissue-thin snake skin scraps. Madness. Lunacy. No purpose, no meaning. Just drawer after magical drawer of ruinous decay.

She goes to another drawer, the last one. Her hair and shirt collar are sweat-soaked and dripping at a rate incongruous with the heat.

The final drawer is file-sized, and it sticks. A tiny part of her leaps at the unexpected scrape of resistance, a lifting lightness in her chest, like the fluttering wings of a small bird. Nothing good here has ever come easy, Hermione thinks. She's had to fight for it step by bloody step.

If it's difficult, it must hold her answer. Or  _an_  answer. That's how plots work.

She wrenches it open.

A concentrated putrescence erupts from the airtight container, and a stench like she's never known hits her like an anvil. Her hand flies to cover her nose and mouth. Inside, there are five rats in varying stages of oozing, necrotic decay, forgotten by all but the inevitability of entropy. She slams the drawer with her other hand, staggering as she does, but it's too late.

The cottage is a hot box, closed tight under the summer sun, and the heat has amplified the toxic smell. It's as if someone microwaved the rotting, nearly liquified flesh, then shoved her in the microwave with it and closed the door. The inescapable smell doesn't even make her gag; her stomach heaves, and she retches straightaway.

Once. Twice. Her body shakes with the force of it.

She's burning and leaking at the same time. It happens again. It  _hurts_.

God, make it stop. She is a wrung out rag. An old kitchen sponge squeezed out and left to shrivel in the sun.

Her awareness centers on her raw throat and heaving chest, a rapid, uneven rise and fall, as she recovers from the violent exhalations. Then she looks down.

She nearly retches again at the sight of her own vomit.

The mess is bad. She can't remember when she last had so much as a sip of water, but water isn't the liquid there.

She slumps away from it all and spits, trying to rid her mouth of the sour, irony taste. Mixed strands of saliva and bile hang, dribbling, from her nose and lips. She wipes at it clumsily, the mess sticking to everything it touches. She can't get away from it, can't get it off.

She closes her eyes and tears fall.

This is not good.

Increased heart rate, lowered blood pressure, shortness of breath. Weakness. Confusion. Malaise.

Detached logic takes over even as she fights back a sob, and she catalogues each symptom as clinically as she can. They are worrisome, especially in combination, but ultimately as nonspecific as a headache.

The blood in her vomit says much more. Bright red and coffee-ground brown.

She's well and truly terrified. Perhaps for the first time. Because now, there's no adrenalin to propel her forward or shield her from the logical conclusion, just a sinking, certain dread.

 _How_  could she have thought Voldemort really healed her? Why didn't she stop to  _think_?

To think about what she had been feeling, to figure out what the effects spelled out, instead of trying to ignore the pain, blindly shouldering through it?

Hermione shakes her head slightly—slightly, for any more will cause a clashing, vice-like throb—and rubs the salty tears from her eyes. Her lips tighten. She'll indulge in self-reproach later, will learn from it and become better when there's time. If there's time.

For now, she knows this: denying the truth will only kill her faster. She is not well, and she will not get better with rest.

She will throw up again—it's only a matter of when, and there will be more blood, until there is nothing but blood.

There is no escape route for her. No flint. No magic left in her. The fireplace will not light.

She needs help, or she will die.

There is only one person here. One possible, impossible source. And she knows what she must do.

On hands and knees again, she pulls the waterlogged journal out of the pile of items she'd deemed useless and begins to write, scratching a broken quill over the soft, mushy pages, eeking out her horrible, hopeless, singular plan.

She's not giving in. She's  _not_.

She's pulling back, taking stock of the situation and acting accordingly. There's no good she can do anyone as a dead woman, and this is not her time to die, not a worthy enough sacrifice—not yet.

She finishes writing, the words just legible enough. She  _will_  get back to her friends.

The dirt builds, caking her jeans with each drag and pull. It's effort. Too much. The cottage is but a room, yet the window is a mile away; the cot is tiny, but it is as tall and steep as a mountaintop.

At the edge of the bed, she looks up into the light above, and as she does, the desire to rest her head nearly overwhelms her, the need for support an actual ache, as only the promise of relief can be. But she doesn't do it. She can't. It's now, before it's never.

"I'm dying," she croaks into the silence. "I need your help."

She knows he is watching, had been talking nearly constantly up until her body rebelled and screamed out its limits.

In the echo of her confession, he's quiet. Focused and calculating, noting the change. What else had she been expecting?

With a lumbering movement, she lobs the journal on the bed and flips it open to what she'd written. Then comes the hardest part. She crawls up the cot, an impossible feat. Wool and wood and a steep incline. She collapses on the flat of the mattress, and the room shakes.

Or, no—it doesn't. Perspective is a funny thing.

She's blurring, and time is running out.

"I'm considering this a timeout," she says, slurring, giving herself a second of rest. She doesn't have a second, but she's sweating and her breathing is strained and rasping, and she can't throw up again, she can't now—not yet.

The whole world is a spinning top and she will die for its turning.

No. There is steel in her. She labors up. Straightens. Sways, leaning with all the grace of a felled tree, crashing to a stop on the glass. The bony crown of her forehead hits the warm, cloudy windowpane, and her fingers fall down, fumbling with delirious slowness for the metal latch. Her eyes roam, focus difficult. He is a pale expanse of pale and dark, white and black; an intent and clinical stare.

Circles and circles. It's all circles. Spirals.

Her tongue is heavy in her mouth.

"You - make. Then, we'll—" her head slides down the glass, gravity and sweat "—talk," she slurs, fingers searching. "Can't if you don't."

It's not trust, she thinks. He can't kill her if she's already dead.

 _Click_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there, friends. You know those people who are slow writers? I'm slower than them. No joke. So thanks for sticking with me.
> 
> Your enthusiasm and reviews and questions really do help speed me along, though, so a huge shoutout to everyone who sent in a review and/or PM.
> 
> Extra special thanks to cocoartistwrites who is an angel sent from fandom heaven. Not only did she help me bounce around ideas for this story, but she also looked over this chapter at a moment's notice. You should all go freak out over her story  _unsphere the stars_  with me. It is epic Hermione-centric Tomione goodness.


	7. Chapter 7

She expects darkness.

Would have wanted it, really, if given the choice. A swaddling blanket of blackness. How necessary. How nice.

Instead, she finds light.

It is a light that encompasses. A light that excludes. A light burning so brightly that it leaves room for nothing else.

And it _is_ bright, this light. White-hot and pulsing. Silver-blue and scorching.

It is everywhere, all at once; as pervasive as oxygen in the air, the heat extending as far as her awareness allows. Beyond, even. It fills her.

There is no end to this incandescence. No beginning, either. It is energy, swarming and swirling and eternal.

Yet it’s more than that, because she burns with it. Burns without loss; burns without pain.

_She_ is burning.

And still, it’s more than that. More than all of it, because she is the heat. She is the light.

_She_ is light.

She knows this down to her depths, in her truest, barest self, and though it is a knowledge without facts or figures or tangible proof, she finds she doesn’t need the proof, doesn’t need the figures.

She is what she is, and she is burning. For a minute and forever.

White. Blue. Light. Heat.

Inescapable, unquestionable fire.

But—no. That isn’t right.

Or, at least, not all. Something pushes her off track. Throws another reality in her light, a craggy black in the swirling white-blue; a contradiction, a truth.

Because, really, what does fire do? That crackling, life-giving energy—what does it do?

It _consumes_.

It takes, and it takes, and it burns all it touches. Eating and engulfing and inhaling, until there is nothing left.

It is everywhere, extends everywhere, as far as far can go, burning and sucking in great, gasping, ravenous gulps, as pervasive as oxygen in the air.

It _needs_ that oxygen. Needs that fuel. Needs to eat, needs to consume, needs to breathe.

_She_ needs to breathe.

She needs to breathe, and she _can’t_.

She needs to breathe.

_She can’t breathe!_

 

* * *

 

Her chest surges upward. Her neck stretches, tendons ropelike and straining.

She is held down, her body convulsing.

Something covers her, pressing against her forehead and pinching the cartilage of her nose. The something is rigid. A solid, immoveable force.

A hand held over her, deliberate and unyielding, pinning her down.

Her chest is burningburningburning, and she gasps, taking huge, desperate sucking gulps, guzzling air like water.

As soon as her mouth opens, cold glass bites into her bottom lip, clinks hard against her teeth. It presses further, the angle changing, and a pungent taste floods her mouth.

She coughs, chokes, then goes still.

 

* * *

 

When she stills, she finds light.

The light is a beacon. Bright and beaming. It is a sun, white-hot and pulsing.

The rays color the inside of her eyelids a saturated yellow-pink. A gradient of warmth settles over her, gradually heating her from hairline to jaw. Like a magnifying glass, it intensifies and amplifies. Like a magnifying glass, its focus helps and harms.

The burning is almost welcome, because the rest of her is so, so cold.

She doesn't realize this at first. Doesn't realize anything, really. Words are difficult. Thoughts are fragments. Figments. The trembling of limbs. Colors: reds, oranges, greys. Muffled, frozen pain.

Then her breathing stops. It’s one of those vital functions that goes unnoticed and unappreciated until something breaks.

_She_ is the something that breaks.

She tries to inhale. To inflate her cracked lungs, to drag deeply through her nose, but she can't. She tries, and she tries, but she can’t.

There is a pinch and a pressure. Her airway is obstructed.

She chokes on a cough; reaches blindly, clawing.

A congealed liquid oozes over her tongue and down her throat, thick and clinging like coagulated blood.

She shudders. She shakes.

She stills.

 

* * *

 

She hears herself.

She’s crying. Begging, really.

“-please,” she says, coming to awareness mid-sentence. A dry, heaving sob escapes her, tearing at the cracks in her throat. “Just one sip. Just one!”

“No.”

“Please!”

“No.”

“ _Please!_ ”

The world is swirling, and she is shivering, and a man-shaped blur is next to her yet below her yet not there at all.

“I’m dying,” she hears herself sob.

“You are,” the dark blur agrees. “And you have. I'm trying to fix that.”

“I need water to live. I'm dying without it. You're killing me.”

“No, I’m not. Not yet. If I give you water, it will flood your insides, and your internal bleeding will worsen.”

_Liar_. It is all she knows for certain. This... _thing_ is a liar.

Her throat has never been this dry. It is sandpaper: rough and raw and painful. This is not — she would know if her body was getting better, would be able to feel those reserves, the relief of it.

“I’ll die. I will. The human body can only take so much.”

The dark blur stiffens. “You are a witch,” it enunciates. “And you'll have what I give you and nothing else.”

She feels her eyes close. But there will be no more tears from her. Even if she had them to give, she refuses to waste precious moisture on them — on this _thing_ in front of her.

_“Are you a witch or aren't you?”_ a memory calls, echoing back to her. With it, she tries her best to focus, feeling entrenched and stubborn and _willful_.

“ _Agua_ \- _Aguamen_ -” she begins. A hand covers her mouth.

“Stop that.”

She looks up and fights more for that focus. But she is coming back to a body not quite ready for her, and she cannot stay.

Dark eyes look down, attempt to pierce her. Look at her and look at her, a thing looking at a thing.

Her eyes shut for her once more, and in that moment _for_ a moment, she stops fighting. Not because of it, but because of... she doesn’t know. And doesn’t need to.

The energy drains out of her, and the light and dark find her, cradle her, and she slips softly into nothing. Nothing at all.

 

* * *

 

The shack is tidier. Not quite clean, but with each iteration of consciousness, it looks less and less like a hovel and more and more like a house.

Hermione doesn't know how many times she slept and woke and shook and choked down potions, but when she comes to enough awareness that she knows her name and feels her body and clears the fog from her mind, there are splinters under her fingernails and slight tickmarks on the wall. Somewhere during the whole process, she had started counting—her awareness or the days, she isn’t sure.

The first time she retains her consciousness of it, there are five already there, waiting for her. Tiny sloped grooves in the wooden wall.

Hermione bites her lip to balance out the pain, to remind herself not to talk, and scratches in line number twelve.

She knows scratching lines into walls will not solve her problems. It’s a tact reserved for the mad and imprisoned. And as much as she would like to not believe it, she may just be those things. Regardless, though, if there is a way for her to assert her reality on this plain, to find steady ground — an anchor — well, she is going to take it.

She scratches, even though it hurts her. Even though there is no point.

Tom-Riddle-Voldemort watches her do it. It’s not a secret she can keep, what with her ruined nailbeds and close proximity to him—a proximity that never, not once stops unnerving her.

He watches her always, and always he talks.

“You’re a very stubborn creature, aren’t you, Hermione?” he’d said on the eighth line, as he had carefully, mechanically stirred a steadily simmering cauldron.

“You’re special—different than most, aren’t you, Hermione?” he’d said on the tenth line, as he had minced ginger and mandrake root with precise, even cuts.

“You're quite magical, aren’t you, Hermione?” he says on the twelfth line, as he stoppers a vial of something viscous and red. Blood replenisher, she thinks.

His words are meant as compliments, at least the last ones. It doesn’t take long for her to realize that, next to perhaps Professor Dumbledore, he's the most skilled magic user she's ever seen. Reverent and concise and effortless all at once, like magic is both a tool to be wielded and an extension of his own self.

He's also a liar.

And a murderer.

And Voldemort incarnate.

It makes for a difficult healing environment, to say the least. She keeps waking and waking and waking up, but never from this dreamscape. This hellhole.

The more tickmarks she makes, the more she understands—and doesn’t. Her mind clears with each healing draught he coaxes down her throat, but the situation only becomes more muddled, insane, ridiculous.

And Tom—he keeps talking to her, a near-constant stream of nuance and information.

He doesn’t hint at the past. Doesn’t talk to her about her or the fact that she’d run in a second if she could muster the energy or that he’d held her down and threatened her for information, just about what he’s making, the things he’s reading, how her body is doing. It’s like he’s lecturing, in a way. On ingredient collection and Potions theory and magic.

She never would have thought Voldemort chatty, but she’s found he likes both conveying information and the sound of his own voice. She’d assumed the stories Harry had told of his mad ramblings were a recent trait—a result of his death and resurrection. Now, she’s not so sure.

Not so sure about so much.

But he talks to her, and she knows — she _knows_ — it's not for her comfort or out of the goodness of his heart or anything other than to pick her apart, but on tickmark fifteen, he heals her fingers, and she finds herself talking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, friends.
> 
> grad school is time-consuming. who knew?


	8. Chapter 8

He wears black trousers and a crisp white button-down.

Again? Still?

It's difficult to tell what's today, yesterday, tomorrow for a number of reasons, let alone his appearance.

He's yet to change, as far as Hermione can tell. Perhaps he has a hidden stash of the same shirt and slacks, or perhaps he has only the one set. No matter the reason, his uniform-like clothing offers her nothing but confusion on how much time has passed. How much time she's lost.

Other than, of course, roughly fifty years.

Hermione feels a sudden, overwhelming urge to shout and scream and cry. Rage flares within her, foreign, a flash fire, but she stifles it. Won't give it air to breathe.

Instead, she turns, and the nail of her right index finger slices into the exposed wood siding, digging in, sliding deep along a diagonal. It's not enough to leave a lasting mark, so she pushes deeper. Harder. Again.

Her nail snaps. Breaks back at the cuticle, exposing raw, baby-pink skin. The hurt is a fraction of the whole, almost nothing compared to what lies beneath the raw, baby-purple-pink scar across her stomach, an anatomical area of turmoil, a part of her body that no longer feels like her own. But the break happens quickly, and the shock of it gets to her.

She sucks in a breath, muscles tensing, before moving on to her thumb.

She's also lost control. That's certainly apparent. Inevitable, even, maybe. But the tick marks do help.

She's under no illusion that they're an accurate representation of how many days she's spent here healing and stagnating on this cot, but they're a thing an invalid can do to focus, to strengthen her will, and in the process build up her magical reserves.

Will and intent, after all, are significant components of magic.

"Will and intent, after all, are significant components of magic," her healer-captor says, like he can hear her very thoughts. The old pewter cauldron stands before him, simmering, and he stirs its contents with the eerily precise movements of a well-programmed automaton. "Of course, everyone understands and applies this concept to, say, Charms or Transfiguration. It even has a prominent place in the foundations of Apparition. Destination, Determination, and Deliberation.'The Three D's,' as the Ministry calls it."

He lifts his wooden spoon straight up, the gold and black ring he always wears on his left hand glinting in the light. Not a single drop of the thick mixture falls back to the cauldron.

"But Potions?" He scrutinizes the tincture. "No. For some reason, everyone expects that ingredients will do all of the work, as if the will of the wizard is less important than an exact measure of Boomslang skin or Runespoor fangs. Specimen - _ingredients_ \- have their uses, to be sure, but they do not act alone. Not in the face of true will. True mastery."

"For the majority, though?" he continues, a frown marring his alabaster skin. "For them, it's only slicing and measuring and chopping and stirring, like any common muggle could do." He makes a disgusted sound deep in his throat. "What a waste."

She turns her head, repulsed at his words and her own interest in them.

Her mind has started to stretch during these last few periods of lucidity, to clear, to worry over every ounce of catalogued consciousness, and this is no exception.

The cogs in her are whirring.

What would Professor Snape say to his claims? Had he, in fact, been subject to this soliloquy on potion-making before? Had the man before her been a teacher to her teacher in more ways than one? Information travels. Oozes from brain to brain. How much of what she knows comes from him?

Why has she ever-never thought to consider potion-making the same way?

And the important questions, the ones she can't quite make herself focus on fully: How is she even _here_? Will she ever be able to leave?

She frowns, glaring at the ceiling.

The rafters are visible from this angle, peeking back down at her. For the most part, cobwebs and dust and debris have been excised from the cabin, but there above her cot, hiding in the ceiling's innards, is a thick canopy of dust, and on that canopy, a long-legged spider lowers itself slowly, hanging by a single precarious thread.

Sweat beads on her neck and forehead as she stares at the dark, dusty expanse above her. Her stomach rolls, innards twisting, like a fist beating against a wall.

Dust is composed primarily of skin cells. Tiny, sloughed off bits of flesh. Of personhood. She'd read that once, she thinks.

Whose skin comprises the dust here? His?

Hers?

From across the room, his spoon hits the makeshift work table, clanging through her thoughts, and she knows what comes next.

The timbre of his voice washes over her again, unsettling yet not quite as alien as she would like. There's something truly horrible to be said for repetition.

"One has to do more than just follow directions to achieve greatness. Potion-making demands thought, demands theory — demands _magic_ , not just mindless compliance to instruction."

He stops in front of her, and she does not look at him.

She slides out her hand on the mattress, palm up, awaiting the vial of whatever potion she must down this hour to maintain a beating heart.

The vial does not come. Instead, he bypasses her hand and grasps her extended wrist. His grip is firm yet oddly painless as he smoothly twists her arm and dips her fingers into a familiar cooling salve. She feels a spark — can't tell if it's magic.

"Dittany," he says when she frowns at her fingertips, now fully healed and tinged a slight greenish-brown. "Diluted, of course."

"Yes, obviously," Hermione spits, responding before she can think, her voice raspy and crumbling from misuse.

How utterly stupid.

Her cheeks flush, and she clenches her jaw. It's the first thing she's said in any number of days. Since she cried out for water in her waking nightmare, at least.

He's been feeding her a regimen of no less than ten different healing potions, and she's downed them without so much as looking him in the eye, let alone engaging him in conversation. Now, though.

Now -

"She speaks," he says, surprised. Delighted, really.

 _Charming_ , she thinks. _Wonderful_.

But, at the same time, why shouldn't she speak? Waiting him out in the hopes of someone, anyone, finding them no longer feels like a potential solution, a viable hypothesis, and if she is anything, she's a problem-solver.

Hermione is tired of silence, she's not entirely convinced she's still alive, at least as she's currently familiar with the term, and her brain is atrophying by the minute, so she does what she can.

She speaks.

"On occasion, yes. She does."

"Wonderful," he replies without missing a beat. It sounds like there's a grin in his voice, even. Her eyes flit to his mouth, and yes, there it is — a smile. It's winning and practiced, a thing she's seen before, both from him and from Lockhart and from the cover of magazines.

But maybe there's a hint of genuine emotion there, creeping in around the corners?

"I was beginning to think you'd forgotten how, and that I'd have to reteach you," he teases. "It would no doubt be a dreadfully boring process, and I must admit, I wasn't looking forward to it."

Hermione hums noncommittally and looks back to the rafters, cursing him in Latin, Bulgarian, German and French.

"Oh dear. And now it seems I've offended you. I'm sorry, Hermione. You must know I didn't mean anything by it."

"Of course not," she lies, the words tumbling out effortlessly.

"Good," he says, then moves to sit by the bed, as if accepting an invitation. It's then she notices the wrist of her dittany-covered hand is still held firmly in his grasp, like it's there to stay.

She's made a mistake. This hadn't been her intention.

And now she can't even get out of bed.

Has he painstakingly invested in her health just to harm her, over and over, slowly and painfully?

Is he going to start now?

Her muscles tense, and she concentrates on breathing evenly.

"Hermione," he says gently. "Would you — it's difficult to have a conversation if you won't look at me. Could you look at me please?"

She doesn't. She won't.

"I - I want to try something, if you'd let me. You see, I feel we have a connection, and I'd like to try and follow that connection. Confirm a hunch, if you will." He pauses, voice hesitant. "Surely you can appreciate the impulse there, can't you?"

All she can appreciate is that her body is a shadow of itself, her gut is killing her, and her insides are a swirling, twisted mess. Her mind, though — her mind is still her own, and she wants it to stay that way.

She considers changing the subject, asking for a glass of water.

Water. That would be nice. She can't remember drinking anything, can't remember eating anything, can't remember so much as even going to the bloody toilet. But if she asks for water again and happens to get it, does that mean that she'll all of a sudden require a toilet?

There isn't a toilet in the shack, let alone indoor plumbing. So what, then, a bedpan?

Will he have to help her relieve herself at every hour of the day? In the middle of the night?

There's only so much she can take, and that is not on the list. At least the internal trauma should keep her period from surfacing this cycle, and likely the next.

A part of her deflates. What a dreadfully sad thing to be thankful for.

She doesn't look at him or ask for water. How could she? The moment has passed. Instead, she fixates on what's happening above her, blissfully independent of him or her, as nature often is. A spider spinning a thread like a fairytale weaver, lowering itself from above, shaping something delicate and dangerous, a tapestry of recorded motion.

It almost looks like it's dancing. Twirling. Circling in the dark.

"What are you looking at, Hermione?" His voice is gentle again. Patient. Curious.

"A spider," she says. And it's true. Lies are best when they're true.

He shifts in his chair, the creaking wood a fissure in the room. His thumb strokes spirals along her wrist, down and down to the sensitive interior of her palm.

"Spiders are rather interesting creatures, aren't they?"

"Yes," she swallows. "They are."

"You've heard of Acromantulas, haven't you? Jet-black spiders the size of boulders—larger, even. Wicked, venomous, deadly creatures."

"I'm not afraid of spiders," she says, looking at the one flitting about above her; at Aragog, shrinking back in fear from mention of a basilisk.

"No? And you shouldn't be, not if you have a wand. Magical creatures are incredibly useful beasts, after all, Acromantulas included. Their place in history is rather fascinating, too. Their eyes, for example, are symbols in the runic alphabet for the number eight." He leans forward slightly. A teacher, a friend, a nurse.

She's been here before.

"Funny number, eight," he continues, settling into a familiar tone. "I've always been more partial to seven, myself. More power in it. Complexity and nuance and - "

"And the unknown," she interrupts, before she can stop herself. "I wouldn't think you'd like that."

He bristles. Just a fraction, but she notices it. Picks it up in her periphery, a blurred bit of black, white, and uncomfortability.

"You know Ancient Runes?" he asks.

Hermione closes her eyes to keep from rolling them. Part of her, though, welcomes the chance to actually _think_ of something else, even if it is just rote recitation. Just a detour from their main route.

"Demiguise," she says quickly, in monotone, "Unicorn, Graphorn, Runespoor, Fwooper, Quintaped, Salamander, Unknown, Acromantula, and Hydra."

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, and nine," he responds, pleased and patronizing.

"Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen," she continues, flippant.

"Yes," Tom-Riddle-Voldemort says, squeezing her hand pointedly, "fifteen."

She opens her eyes at the weight in his words. Escaping this reality isn't really possible, is it?

"Is that how long I've been asleep, then?" she asks softly.

"Not quite," he replies. His thumb strokes across her palm again, seemingly absentminded. "But that's a nice way to put it: 'Asleep.' I think I'll take to calling it that." He circles, again and again.

"How much longer will I... be asleep, do you think?"

His head tilts. "Hard to tell. The damage was quite extensive. Gruesome, really." His thumb strokes.

She knows, she knows. She should be dead, and she's not.

"Your best guess?" she asks, her voice strained with forced evenness.

"I don't like to guess, Hermione. I like to know."

And there's her heart again. In her throat, wild and pulsing.

The urge to rip her hand away is overwhelming. Echoes of his touch skate up her arm, around her neck, straight across her torso. Her skin is literally crawling.

"Would you look at me, Hermione?"

She closes her eyes, clenching them tight like a child in the dark.

"My stomach hurts," she says. Her left hand cradles her midsection. "The scar. It's like there's something there, pushing."

It's true, it's true; lies are best when they're true.

He makes a sympathetic noise and scoots closer. Her gut twists. Hands pound at her ribcage, loud and furious, a prisoner banging at the bars.

She clenches her eyes tighter, wincing, like she's bracing for impact.

 _I won't open them_ , she thinks. _You'll have to make me_.

He lifts her hand, and she feels it go, a puppet's appendage, following a string.

He squeezes it. Once. Twice. A warning.

Then he lets go.

Then he stands up.

"I hate to see you like this, Hermione. I'll get you something, don't worry," he soothes.

And — then what?

She hears him turn, walk away. Her eyes stay closed until he does. Even still, she has to remind herself to breathe. It is a necessary function, and she needs to. To relax. To exhale.

Finally, she does.

The ragged movement feels remarkably like relief.

As if he can hear her, he turns, pivoting.

"Oh, almost forgot."

He gestures sharply at the ceiling. As if in slow motion, his long, delicate fingers curl, retracting into a hard fist, and the dangling spider crumples in on itself like a discarded wad of paper, each leg contorting one at a time, breaking backward until the animal is a tight and tiny ball. Broken and scrunched and still.

His hand unfurls, and he casually swipes it across his face, like he's swatting away a fly. The spider, the web, and the dust vanish cleanly into nothing, as if they'd never been there at all.

"There," he says, smiling. "That's better."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, everyone. i'm back! in a week(-ish)! this isn't my usual timeline, but let's enjoy it while it lasts. huge shoutout goes to emilybelham on tumblr for looking over this chapter like an absolute internet goddess. thank you for your very generous help and support!
> 
> and thanks as well to everyone who's commented. i'm super grateful. it's seriously mind-boggling to me that only about 5% of readers comment, since i've always been a dedicated reader/reviewer, but, you know, it's never too late to switch ranks, y'all. maybe we can even turn that 5% into 6% this chapter. #daretodream
> 
> til next time.


	9. Chapter 9

She knows what he is.

He’s a monster. The type that likes to play with its food. Likes to disturb and unnerve and maintain the upper hand.  

The display — what he just did — it’s calculated intimidation. And it works.

It just doesn’t work that well.

“Will you teach me?” she asks, blurting out the words as soon as she’s processed his actions, before he’s even able to turn back around.

He visibly jolts, swallowing down a _‘What?’_ that’s nonetheless apparent in the stiffness of his shoulders and suddenly stilted take of his smile. It’s almost comical, she thinks, his reaction to her bluntness. Would be, if the stakes weren’t so incredibly high.

She persists, though, as she knows she must, playing by ear and by instinct. It’s gotten her this far, after all.

“Wandless magic,” she explains, flapping her hand across the cot in rough imitation of his recent gesture, stubbornly ignoring her revulsion. “Your _Evanesco_. I’d like to learn how to cast it wandlessly.”

He stops smiling.

“And silently,” she adds.

He’s looking at her like he’s never seen her before, and it’s all she can do not to meet his eyes. They’re hungry, and they’re wanting, inhabiting the devastatingly beautiful constellation of his face like twin black holes. Deep and dark and dangerous. Their gravity so strong that not even light can escape.

How, exactly, does she think she can keep herself out of his path? From being consumed?

He blinks.  

“You do?” he asks, voice oddly flat. The room seems to echo his words back to her.

“Yes.”

Blunt and honest lies, that’s the way to go. He never seems to know what to do with blunt and honest.

He looks down at her, and it’s worse than usual, because he is literally looking down at her; she’s still flat on her back, not even propped against pillows, and he is looming over her.

Well, she can change one of those things, at least.

She attempts to sit up, pushing against the cot for leverage. The mattress is thin as ever, and her arms are weak as ever, but she should be able to if she just -

Pain pulses through her midsection, racketing through her like a scream. She winces, hissing, and falls back to the mattress.

“Be careful!” he bites out sharply. Shock and worry play across his features in a fierce, unsettling way.

“I’m fine,” Hermione says through gritted teeth. “Just maybe — the potion first?” It’s less of an ask and more of a command, a no-nonsense articulation, the pain speaking through her.

He pauses, hovering at what must be her tone, as if actually considering not getting it merely because she asked him to. _Told_ him to.

Surely he isn’t that contrary?

He shakes his head slightly, hardly perceptibly, then nods. “Of course,” he replies graciously before turning. “One moment.”

One moment. One moment. One moment and then another moment and then another and another and another.  

She waits.

As she does, she notices details about this place, about herself, taking in her surroundings, consciously absorbing the setting of her story for the first time in a disturbingly long time.

From this prone position on the cot, her perspective is limited. The pads of her fingers brush lightly over the mattress, taking in a drastic, distinct change in texture. The wool blanket is missing. In its place is a roughspun linen sheet that’s stiff but softer, certainly, than the previous covering and mostly in one piece.

Limp, tangled curls press into her cheek as she turns her head to look at the sheet. It’s beige, and nondescript. Her hair, though. Her hair is loose and thick, tumbling over her shoulders and behind her neck. It’s hot, irritating, and she wishes more than she can say that she could pull it into a ponytail or pile it high on top of her head.

She can’t begin to imagine how greasy and matted it must be. How long it will take to brush and clean.

Hermione sighs, rolling her head over to look down at herself awkwardly, her chin pressing into her chest.

And, speaking of clean, her clothes — the soiled ones, dirty and bloody and tattered beyond repair — are gone. _They’re gone._ As in, not on her body.

How could she not have noticed? How could she -

Did he - ?

Of course he did.

He changed her. Unbuttoned her jeans. Took off her jumper. Removed her shoes. Put her in this - this _shift_. An old-fashioned dress. A nightgown?

Something. It’s something. She doesn’t know what. But it’s unstructured, absurdly nice, a pristine white cotton crepe fit for summer, light and cool and barely noticeable against her skin, and, most importantly, _not hers_.

She swallows thickly, a frenzied worry gathering in her throat. Her fingers shake, tentative but determined, as they migrate down, skimming against the thin white fabric, along the curve of her hip.

A piece of that unnameable worry breaks, dissolving, as she feels the elastic line of her underwear.

Practicality, then. A nightgown. Or hospital gown, for lack of a better garment.

“For you.”

She nearly jumps at his silent, sudden appearance.

A vial of thick golden liquid is thrust in front of her, an apparent offering for her inspection, but it’s just for show. He’s not going to hand it to her; he’s going to give it to her.

With innate grace, he leans down fluidly, left hand sliding behind her head and lifting her up slightly, gently, just enough to tilt her head forward and keep her from choking on what's to come. She closes her eyes immediately, forced to by his close proximity.

With her eyes shut, her other senses come to the fore. Smell and touch and taste. Star Grass and pickled Murtlap Tentacles and - and him. This close, with his arms extended, she can’t not.

He smells clean. Not the kind of clean that comes from soap but from absence. A clean of nothing, a clean that comes from magicking away stains and stenches and inconvenience.

The vial brushes against her lips, and she opens her mouth obediently, swallowing the potion with only slight discomfort. Even still, though, as she swallows, she picks up another faint scent, a trace of perspiration, of body odor building.

The smell  — the natural reek of sweaty boy  — is absurdly, dangerously comforting.

It means he is human, no matter how hard he tries to be other.

“Very good,” he murmurs, as she finishes off the potion, and he lowers her slowly to the mattress. “That should help soon.”

She concentrates on the potion until he backs away. Murtlap Tentacles, Star Grass, Bicorn Horn. Mentally cataloging the smells and tastes of her written instructions, all those tick marks ago, and also a number of things she didn’t write down.

“Bitterroot plant?” she asks, licking her lips and opening her eyes. “Jobberknoll feathers?”

“Yes,” he answers with a pleased, approving tone. “They should help soothe the hurt that’s  — what did you call it?” He pauses. “ _Pushing_.”

“Thank you,” she replies for lack of a better thing to say, letting the pain-killing potion work its way through her system, already quelling a large part of her very real hurt.

Thanking him. She's thanking him.

“You’re welcome, Hermione,” he says. “Now, if you've no objections, let’s begin with the lesson, shall we?”

What?

She nearly asks him that — what  he’s talking about, feeling witless and blurry-headed, before catching herself. Wandless magic. Of course.

She’s done it before. A quick _Confundus_ or two, but nothing like what he’s performed in front of her. It couldn’t hurt to learn more, and if he really wants to teach her and keep her — from her wand, from others, for himself — then some wandless magic could actually _help_. Perhaps his lectures can be tweaked a bit, poked and prodded toward hubris.

He takes her silence as acquiescence and proceeds to ask, “What do you already know about it?”

She’s a little surprised that he’s asking instead of telling, as is his normal wont. She considers the question, though, and wracks her brain — the parts that are working. When she opens her mouth, words start forming into slow sentences that spill out almost of their own volition.

“Well, I have done a bit of reading on the subject,” she begins cautiously, looking up at him. He nods his head, as if encouraging her to continue, and she swallows before speaking. “Wands are a European invention, created millennia ago. The Ollivanders, for instance, are noted to have been practicing wandlore professionally since 382 B.C., and likely even earlier. But there were witches and wizards before then,” she goes on, voice gaining strength as she falls into the comforting cadence of fact, “and outside of Europe, on other continents, in countries like America and Uganda, developed magical populations created and practiced spells wandlessly almost exclusively until as late as the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.

“Uganda’s largest school Uagadou along the Mountains of the Moon, for example, encourages and develops the practice of wandless magic even now, with many students preferring to use hand gestures and pointing motions instead of wands. The development of similar motions across cultures has been noted by many historians, and of those historians, a large subset hypothesize an innate connection to such movements at the core of all casting.”

She stops talking, almost energized at the end of it, because it's fascinating stuff, really. Counter to her experiences with magic, to be sure, but then again, when does one individual experience make up the whole of what’s possible?

He doesn’t agree with her. Doesn’t say anything, really. He just stares, and discomfort and embarrassment build in her.

“Did you not know about that?”

“I knew it,” he answers immediately, “I just don’t see how that information is relevant to helping you cast wandlessly.” His tone sounds genuine enough, but she picks up the patronizing elements of it.

He keeps wanting her to speak, and then any time she says anything he changes his mind.

She lifts her jaw. “It’s helpful in a number of ways, actually. First, the historical precedents prove that it is indeed a possible practice in many individuals, not just the best and brightest witches and wizards, as current popular belief would lead one to think. Secondly, the pointing and gesturing aspect to most casting implies a necessary movement similar, though not exactly identical, to casting with a wand, which is helpful in practical applications. Thirdly, the trick seems to -”

“There's no trick to it,” he interrupts, voice confident and absolute. “You just have to focus. Will it to be so, because it is so.”

Hermione sucks in a breath, trying not to take or cause offense.

She’s kept her breathing steady and shallow this whole time. Slow, barely-there exhalations that limit the movement of her torso, the aggravation of her wound, because she can’t afford to aggravate anything else. But goodness, does she want to.

“Okay,” she proceeds cautiously. “ _Will_. Will it with a spell?”

“No,” he responds with a hint of what might be actual passion, moving back and forth by her bedside, choosing to pace rather than sit. “Not necessarily. Spells, like wands, are conduits. Tools that channel magic, help form and focus complex energies, but, again, they are conduits. They are not magic. They do not _create_.”

It's an interesting distinction. Not exactly something she's considered before.

Many countries and cultures do not rely on wands, as she’s said. But spells? To dismiss them? That seems an extreme assertion.

“It all comes back to will,” he continues, gesturing with his hands as he walks. “Will and power. A strong, determined wizard can exert control on more than many can fathom, can conquer that which most are not even capable of dreaming of. He just has to focus.”

“Yes, but on what?”

“On his magic,” he replies simply, as easily as breathing, then begins launching into a description of magic and magical cores and the things that can be done, can be controlled, can be conquered.

It’s fascinating. And it’s terrible. And it’s so very, very enticing.

She closes her eyes as she considers focus and want and will.

Focuses on wanting. But on wanting what?

What can she will that can possibly be done?

Her heart immediately goes to health and happiness and home and Harry.

But no. Those are impossible things. Ridiculous given her situation.

Something she's done before, then. Something easy. A test.

Her eyes close tighter as she tunnels in on that want. _The_ want. _Her_ want. She feels it, her first conscious brush with magic, light and buoyant, like a feather floating through the air.

A part of her longs to raise her hand, to chase after the motion with her very self. To point, as she knows is often done. But even if she had physically been able to, which she isn't, she shouldn't _need_ to. The body can help in all kinds of matters, particularly the magical, but ultimately it's just for show.

She bites the inside of her lip. Focuses. Really, truly focuses. There is a hint of something brilliant and beautiful shining within her. A swirling of incandescence that burns like joy, white and blue and black. It flares at her notice, becoming clearer and clearer and -

“Stop that!”

Her eyes fly open in shock. She’s jerked away, rifted from the burning light, both by his sharp words and a quick slap to her cheek. In the background, she hears glass clatter to the ground.

He's frowning. Scowling at her as he retracts his hand.

“You're too weak to do magic without hurting yourself,” he scolds, sharp and commanding, like a master to a dog. He looms further over the bed. “You aren't to do anything but listen as I explain the theory, understand?”

It takes her a second to fully comprehend, but then -

How dare he!

She feels - well, she feels _furious_. She _is_ furious, and has been. Helpless and hurt and frustrated and _furious_.

He hadn't physically hurt her. The slap had just been a pat, really. But that's also not exactly the point, is it?

“Why are you doing this?” Hermione snaps roughly, officially tired of this game they’re playing.

She is fed _up_. Calling it quits. Done in so many ways.

_Damn the fucking consequences_.

His face shutters, becoming motionless and unreadable, and he looks down his nose at her, his height and her prone state compounding their current power differentials to a ludicrous degree.

He tilts his head as if considering her question. “Because you asked me to,” he answers.

“No,” she responds forcefully, teetering on the edge of a breakdown, caught in an impossibly dangerous situation, unable to move. “Not that. _This_. Me. Why are you doing _this_? Why do you have me here? Why are you healing me?”

He raises a brow, even more patient, more polite, more clueless as she falls further in the opposite direction. “Would you rather I didn't?” he asks.

She nearly screams.

This is why children throw fits, isn't it? The world gets too mean and too cruel and too much, and they're without the tools to take it in. To fight back.

“Of course not,” she says, the words ripping from her throat as she glares up in the general direction of his forehead. “I just want to know what's going on. How long you plan to keep me here.”

“I won't harm you,” he assures her, casually slipping his hands into his pockets, fumbling for his wand perhaps. “I seek answers as well, as I'm sure you remember.”

Remember. _Remember._ Isn't that one of the magic words she's been teeter-tottering around?

“You're avoiding my questions,” she bites out.

“And you've avoided mine,” he replies easily, instantly.

His calm demeanor nearly tears her apart.

“Is there any, any way you'll give me an honest answer?” she asks, already knowing it’s rhetorical, her frustration bleeding into a whine.

Emotion seeps through, then. He sneers at her tone, as haughty and dismissive as the rich pureblood she knows he is not. “This conversation is beginning to grow tiresome, Hermione.”

Agency, that's what children lack. And they know it, and so they cry and hit and scream, doing anything they can to exert control, to feel like a person in a world that tells them they’re not.

She won't get an honest answer. Not from him. Not intentionally.

But she’ll get one all the same.

_Damn the fucking consequences._

She reaches deep into herself, down and down into the white and blue and black. Finds it almost instantly. A rage and a joy.

When she does, she continues forward with her sudden, half-baked plan, willful and reckless, locking eyes with him. Looking at him, diving straight into his orbit. His gravity. It’s like the whole damn universe exists in his dark black eyes.

Dark black eyes that widen a fraction, and a fraction too late.

_“Legilimens!”_ she screams.

And it works.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again, friends.
> 
> this chapter comes to you courtesy of a couple sleepless nights and some great proofreading via emilybelham and justcourbeau. they're both lovely and on tumblr and you should all go say hi.
> 
> love to everyone who commented last chapter. hoping to hear what y'all think about how things are progressing this chapter too.
> 
> til next time.


	10. Chapter 10

****She’s going to die.

Oh god, she’s going to _die_.

She sees herself — dying, that is — a vision through his eyes. Dying, again and again, over and over: splayed on a rug, trapped in a bed, spread out in a field. Blood and guts and human stuff.

A fragile body and a frightening mind.

The visions rush past, compressed and looping — sallow skin, wracking lungs, a person-shaped husk. Brittle bird bone ribs and a noose-like rope of purple scar tissue.

The images happen simultaneously, and it’s _her her her_. Dead and dying.

She can’t, though.

She can’t die. Didn’t die and _won’t_.

It’s not real.

Or, it’s real, but only to a certain point; a twisting hinge of fate.

Her body on a table. In a lab.

A shell. A mistake. Such an utter, utter _waste_ , and she is clambered over and uncrumpled, then, on the cot, and two long fingers fumble, feeling along the juncture of her chin and throat, and oh, but there is such an overwhelming urge to _push_.

Hermione reels back and goes nowhere, like she’s just thrust her head under a waterfall and tried to open her eyes. There’s water, and there’s pressure, and yes, surely it’s wet, but can she see?

It’s a deluge.

There’s a snake in the grass. A bird in the hand.

A voice is screaming, and it isn’t hers.

A wardrobe, then a toffee tin. A dusty old harmonica. A thimble, crushed and thin.  

Underneath, a shiny black ring, and inside, a body. Two of them.

Why? _Why_ does he always get the broken things?

It isn’t _fair_ , this feeling. It’s too much. Time. Memories. Blood.

Too much blood, and it doesn’t stop.

Some boundaries are not meant to be breached, no matter how possible it may be to do so.

Memories, thoughts, feeling. It’s not one thing happening after another in rapidfire sequence. It’s _everything_ — everything happening all at once, all the time. Layers upon layers.

She wonders if this is how it always works — _Legilimens_. ( _Occlumens_.)

She doesn’t think so. It shouldn’t, from what she’s read. From what Harry said of Professor Snape. It’s more so memories that play out like movies, convenient little tapes that treat a train of thought like a sequence. A scene. Admittedly, Harry hadn’t exactly said _much_ , but —

And then it happens.

And there she is. Again, in a silvery swirl.

Small wrists slammed to the ground by larger, paler hands. There’s a crunch of grit and dirt. A touch that flares. An overmastering sense of rightness. Of want. Like calling to like, what it is to _be_ , wholly — but not quite. So close that it’s never been so far.

And at the same time, all the time, there is a bottomless aching feeling that gnaws as it oozes, black like ichor. The watery fetid discharge of a wound that’s spreading, swirling. Expanding in the most dreadful, fearsome way.

Fear as a motivator is nothing new. Study harder, read more, run faster. It pushes, and it bends. She knows it. Recognizes it quite intimately. But this?

This isn’t _fear_. It’s terror.

Death is coming. Death is here.

And oh, it swells like the rising tide.

Hermione grasps at this kernel of truth like a buoy in a maelstrom. She pulls, as if maybe — just _maybe_ — she can heft herself out of this torrent and finally _see_ , finally _breathe_ , instead of just being beaten, battered and submerged.

And then it happens.

And there she is. Again, again, _again_ , in a silvery swirl. She rises, out and above.

In a breath, there’s Tom, tall and straight-backed like a soldier. His hair is combed. His white shirt is immaculately pressed, the sleeves rolled to a neat, elbow-high cuff.

A glistening bead of sweat trickles down the nape of his neck, pooling with countless others at the lip of his collar. Similar lakes form, saturating the crease of his arm and the small of his back. It is a regrettable inconvenience of the summer, this heat — and, in exchange, his response to it — but ultimately a small one. One he studiously ignores in favor of something so much more and so much worse.

Down and before him is a small and sunken thing; the anatomy of an impossible mistake.

It is stripped bare, naked save for strange floral underclothes and a truly disturbing amount of blood.

Tom’s face gives away nothing. Sure, there are bags under his eyes, as if he hasn’t slept in days, and his lips are dry, peeling slightly. His nose, too, is a notable marker, though it is of the past, not the present; once perfect, it’s now swollen but healing, a glaring yellow-y purple bruise.

No, there is little outward interest on his mask of a face. His hands, though — they tell far more. They tremor, shaking with a barely concealed something.

Anger, perhaps. Exhaustion, certainly.

Weakness, regardless.

He glares at the tremors for a long moment, rotating his hands before him. Then somehow, either by magic or sheer force of will, the shaking stops.

His hand, as still as any surgeon’s, extends down and plunges into a bucket of cool water. A sodden strip of white cotton cloth emerges, and he wrings it out with slow precision, twisting and tightening it like a hand around a neck.

He will fix it. Will get rid of the mess.

His movements are utilitarian and practiced; punctuated by frequent wringing, tightening _twists_.

Oh, he is _furious_.

He pivots the body when necessary, lifting a leg or turning an arm, like it is merely a cauldron that needs scrubbing. He is thoroughly methodical in his approach.

Time collapses.

The cotton rag is a dripping, gummy pink.

The body is clean.

Tom quivers, a cage that barely contains.

His fingers shake and slide almost-but-not-quite over the body’s midsection, ghosting along its side, counting the too many too-visible ribs.

“ _This_ is what I’m stuck with?” he whispers. “ _This_ , whatever you are.”

Remnants of pinkish water dot his hand. Another shake, and one dot drips from the tip of his index finger, splatting on the skin below. There’s a sharp, hiccuping intake of breath.

He snatches his hand away like a person caught.

What a pitifully frail thing.

A ragged wheeze comes from it, reverberating through the room, as present as an aftershock. He sneers, stepping back.  

He grabs the bucket of water and hauls it to the cabin door. When he returns, there is more white fabric bunched in his hands, which are now clean and dry. He wastes no time when he returns, carefully lifting the body up by the shoulders. He guides limp limbs through sleeves of white cotton crepe, through the nightgown that he liberated from the other house, and it is a trial, truly, more difficult than expected to dress an uncooperative body. To achieve a modicum of presentability.

Finally, though, it’s reached.

The white fabric is an improvement, certainly, though anything would be. Casings matter.

He contemplates cutting off the hair, for there is far too much, and it is in a riotous, perhaps even irreparable, state. Instead, he straightens the gown, pulling it down as far as it will go, then farther.

A twitch. More ragged breathing. A jerk.

The aftershocks weren’t aftershocks, after all. Merely foreshadowing. Foreshocks.  

And there it goes, and here it comes — a wracking cough, terrible and wet, and his shoulders somehow stiffen further. It’s time. _Again_.

His face contorts.

Rage and terror meet, swelling.

A dozen potion bottles line the bedside table, just out of reach of any haphazard thrashing or ill-timed convulsions. Tom locates a small green one. Unstoppers it.

Death has no place here. He will conquer it. Will cast it out. He knows this, as sure as sin. It will happen, because he wills it so.

The potion is shoved in at the next cough, and his steady, careful fingers stroke across a long, bent throat, somehow coaxing the liquid down.

“You _will not die_ ,” he commands, voice resolute. There is no response, but he speaks again anyway, flicking away a strand of dirty brown hair as he does. “What an abominable mistake.”

He brushes another irredeemably filthy curl aside, this one further up, across the temple. His hand lingers.

Wide, brown-black eyes fly open, wild and unseeing, and clash into his.

She is flung back and falls under the water.

A scream rings in her ears, and it is not her own.

 

* * *

 

 

A heart beats in her chest. Air courses through her lungs. Light hits her eyes.  

Was reality always this... much?

No. Certainly not.

Another ray of light, and pain sings behind her eyes like a pickaxe striking. The light is white, bright and blinding, so much so that Hermione nearly misses Tom’s hands flying out to her shoulders and grabbing her by the nightgown.

“Are you stark raving _mad_?” he snarls. His nostrils flare on a sharp exhale.

Hermione breathes deeply and tries not to cry as the pickaxe swings again. The unmistakable sudden onslaught of a migraine resonates in her, drowning out the scream, before she can be pushed further into the mattress.

It’s been maybe a second. Likely a minute.

He is pale and trembling. His eyes are sparking and stunned. (His nose is fully healed.)

_“What do you think you’re doing?”_

So intense, he is, like a spitting cat. Everything is so intense. She closes her eyes.

He exhales raggedly. “That you would - that you would _dare_ \- ”

“I’m - ” she croaks, then stops, voice breaking, not from his brutish attempts at intimidation but because her head is likely to split in two on her next breath.

His hands grip her shoulders tighter, and Hermione can tell he wants to shake her like a doll.  

“What? You're  _what_?”

“I’m a person,” she says firmly. Tears leak from her clenched eyes. If there was a way to fling this pain from her mind, to cut her head from her body, she would, but there isn’t, and she needs to say this to him. To express it clearly. “I’m a person, not a thing. Not a body.”

She squints up at him, can see the exaggerated contrast of his dark form against the too-bright light, can see that same dark form rear back at her pronouncement. She continues, pushing.

“I know you have kept and will continue to keep me breathing. But I. Am not. A thing.”

He looms over her. “You’re a nightmare made flesh.”

Nightmare. She nearly laughs.

That’s nothing new. She has been called as much before, by Ron and others. It feels so bizarre coming at her from this person in this place. But she thinks this monster really means it — in a very literal sense. She feels the same for him.

“I’m a person,” she repeats, “like you.”

He bristles, and ignores her. “I don’t care _what_ you are. If you try that again, I’ll kill you,” he says fiercely, in a low, dark voice.

It doesn’t scare her. Not now.

“You won’t,” she says. They both know it’s true.

His hands disappear from her shoulders, and he rises in a fury that feels more huff than stormcloud. He stalks off to some corner of the room, out of her awareness, and she can’t find it in herself to care, because the onslaught of a migraine has turned into the very real throws of a migraine, and she can hardly see for the pulsing behind her eyes. This light will carve her hollow.

The pickaxe swings.

She presses the bony heel of her hands into her eyes, which is ineffectual at providing more than the barest whisper of relief, but removing them now seems impossible. Certainly worth any potential damage to her corneas from the pressure. Inundated as she is, she almost forgets him entirely in a fresh wave of pain, and it is of course that second he returns. Of course it is. It wouldn’t do for her to focus on something other than him, now would it?

“You try that again,” he says, strained yet furious, “and _you_ will kill you.”

She does not refute his claim. Her mind is screaming too much to form syllables, much less an argument.

“Do you hear me?”

She clenches her eyes further in response.

Suddenly, his hands grab her wrists and pull them from her face. She groans.

He’s leaning over her, so close she can feel his shadow. She opens her eyes.

“ _Do you hear me?_ ” he repeats, as if nothing in the world is more important than what he has to say. “Attempting that kind of magic, now, will _kill_ you.”

His brown-black eyes are wide, and they bore into her own. He is scared, and not for her.

Another stab of pain, and she jerks, flinching.

His hands tighten around her wrists, enough they will surely leave bruises, and through the all-consuming haze of pain, Hermione produces a sneer of her own.

“We’re _all_ going to die, Tom.”

He drops her hands like they’ve burned him. Looks at her again for a long, hard moment.  

 _“Not you,”_ he says finally. “And not me.”

The pain returns. She wants to vomit and thinks she might.

She turns her head, buries her face in a pillow, and prays for it to end. For this all to end.

For a numberless time since she came to this hellscape, this _nightmare_ , she feels like she is dying.

But she can’t die. Not her.

Tom Riddle says she won’t.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How’ve y’all been this last year? Busy? Me too. 
> 
> (For those still watching this space, I’m still writing when I can, I can’t guarantee timely updates, and I love hearing your thoughts.)
> 
> Posting and running. Hugs & love.


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